


Breathe

by hopeintheashes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, History of abuse, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Who decided that he was in charge? He’s no leader. He can’t fix this.</em> Set immediately post-Unleashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Rarepair Repopulation](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TWRarePairNov2013). I made it in just under the deadline! 
> 
> **[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/hopeintheashes/playlist/43ZyApFfO9HHIw8SUINP5a)**  
>  _Breathe Me_ \- Sia  
>  _Afraid_ \- The Neighbourhood  
>  _Say Something_ \- A Great Big World  
>  _Starlight_ \- The Wailin' Jennys  
>  _Oh, Agememnon_ \- Crooked Still  
> 

There's rainwater dripping from the hem of Isaac's shirt.

"I... I was wondering if I could ask you a favor." 

His lips are trembling and tinged with blue, but his eyes are defiant. _This is not a surrender._

Scott stands to invite him in.

. . . 

. . . 

Half the time, Stiles falls asleep sprawled out across Scott’s bed, waking up just enough to groan in displeasure as Scott shoves him over to claim his fair share. When there’s some forethought, though, Stiles pulls out the ancient camping mattress and sleeping bag from under the bed and sets up on the floor, making grabby hands in the direction of the bed until Scott throws down an extra pillow, deliberately aiming for his face. It’s not Stiles in his shower, though, so Scott flattens himself to the floor to search for the bedding. He can hear the hiss of the water, and through it, Isaac's small gasp as he steps into the warmth. He drops the mattress pad and sleeping bag next to his bed and slips out the door. 

His mom is downstairs, finishing the last of the dishes. The kitchen light is a hazy sun burning against the windowpane. "So. Isaac?" 

Scott looks away. He hadn’t exactly asked permission for an unstable werewolf to move in. “Yeah. I mean, if you don’t mind…”

She cups his cheek with soapy fingers, pulling his eyes back to hers. "He can stay as long as he wants. Don't you dare let him think otherwise." She drops her hand and sighs to herself. "Water in the soup, I guess."

Scott looks around the kitchen, confused. "Soup?"

Melissa rolls her eyes. "Get back upstairs. Make sure he hasn't climbed out your window already."

"Night, Mom." He presses a quick kiss to her cheek. 

"Night." 

When he looks back, she's staring out at the moonless night, soap suds drifting from her fingers like snow. 

. . . 

. . . 

He stops to inventory the guest room. It's mostly for storage these days. Clean, but the bed is buried under a layer of winter clothes that might be coming or going; Scott can't tell. If this is going to be a long-term thing, they should probably get that sorted out. Let Isaac have some space. 

He's mentally reorganizing the guest room as he opens the door to his own. The shower is off but the whole place is still pleasantly hazy and warm. All the lights are on, so it takes him a moment to realize that Isaac is sprawled face-down on the camping mattress as if he'd stumbled out of the shower and face-planted on top of the sleeping bag with barely enough time or energy to pull on a pair of sweatpants. By the time Scott has finished brushing his teeth, Isaac’s bare shoulders are trembling. Scott pulls an extra blanket from the closet shelf and drapes it over him, exhaling as Isaac relaxes into the warmth. He turns off all the lights and then reconsiders, going back to turn on the bathroom light and then pulling the door nearly closed. He falls asleep listening to Isaac breathe, fast but steady. When he wakes, the blanket is folded neatly at the foot of his bed and the bathroom light is off.

. . . 

. . . 

In first period, Stiles is bursting. “You. Isaac.” He waves an index finger between Scott and some vague other classroom where he assumes Isaac must be. “Coming into school together.” He raises his eyebrows and leans so far toward Scott that he almost falls out of his seat. “You spending the night together now?”  

Scott just looks at him evenly. “Isaac’s staying with me for a while.”

Stiles brings his eyebrows back down suspiciously. “Why?”

“His housing situation is a little… up in the air.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Did Derek kick him out?” He gasps dramatically. “Did they fight? Were there claws and fur and… _grrr?_ ” He imitates a werewolf’s growl, and it’s just about the least intimidating thing Scott has ever heard. He bites back a laugh.

“I didn’t ask for the details.”

“Whyyy?” Stiles whines.

“Not our business, dude.” Their math teacher has his eyes on the clock, waiting for the bell to ring so that he can call roll.

Stiles throws the words out as if they don’t matter, but he’s chewing on a hangnail on his thumb. “So. How long is a while?”

“A while, Stiles.”

“But—”

“Okay,” their teacher interrupts loudly, over the bell. “You’re on my time now.”

Stiles leans back in his chair and pouts.  

. . . 

. . . 

 

They don’t really talk that night. Scott leaves the light on again and Isaac doesn’t object. The guest bedroom is still buried under sweaters. Scott shifts to his side, staring at the far wall as if he could see right through it. In the stillness that follows, he realizes what’s missing: empathetic movement from the other person in the room. He glances over the edge of the bed. Isaac’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling, reflecting the bathroom light. Scott can hear his heart running too fast, but there’s nothing to say.

He wakes to a sliver of yellow light and shuddering breaths coming out of the darkness. For a moment, he’s lost, but when he rolls over, he finds Isaac sitting up, head to his knees, wrapped up in his arms but shivering hard. _“Isaac.”_ Quiet, but certain. The breath catches, then resumes, faster and more ragged than before. “Isaac!” More forceful. Commanding. He reaches out a hand. Isaac shocks back at the contact, but when Scott increases the pressure on his shoulder, he relaxes into the touch. After a few moments, he looks up in confusion.

“Scott?”

“Yeah, man. Who’d you think?”

The only reply is Isaac stumbling up and toward the bathroom light. When he returns, hands still shaking slightly, the mattress is pulled up close to the bed. Neither of them say anything, but when Isaac lays down, Scott rolls to his stomach and lets his arm hang over the edge. With Isaac’s head on the pillow, he can just reach. He hesitates, then wraps his fingers firmly around Isaac’s neck, the way a wolf carries her pup. Isaac struggles for a moment, then submits. Scott’s fingers loosen as he drifts back off to sleep, but Isaac’s heart has already begun to slow.

. . . 

. . . 

Stiles is twitchy, words on the tip of his tongue. Scott imagines he must be tasting blood from the effort of biting them back. He hasn’t set foot in Scott’s house in days.

When Isaac gets up from the lunch table, Stiles glares at his back and then starts typing furiously on his phone. Scott looks at him in confusion. “What?”

Stiles hands over his phone and crosses his arms, leg pumping under the table like a piston on a train. _Does he sleep in your room?_

“Stiles!”

Stiles grabs his phone back defensively. “Well?”

Scott just stares at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

. . . 

. . . 

 

The mattress is still pulled up as close to the bed as it can go. Melissa has started in on the guest room, apologizing to Isaac for the wait. Scott falls asleep to shallow breaths and wakes to gasps. His mom is home that night, and he sees shadowy feet outside his bedroom door at 1 am. They hesitate, and linger, and turn, and turn back again. His hand has already worked its way up from the space between Isaac’s shoulder blades to the nape of his neck. Isaac’s breathing and heartbeat slow, and after a moment, the footsteps retreat.

. . . 

. . . 

Scott’s still running interference between Isaac and the twins, trying to follow all three of them around as inconspicuously as possible. Stiles isn’t making it easy. “Can we forget the Alphas for a minute, here? There’s a fucking evil Druid thing that’s—”

Scott throws up his hands. “So, what? You want me to ignore the fact that Isaac and the twins keep trying to _kill each other?_ I’m just trying to keep everyone alive!”

“By helping Isaac with a stupid pissing contest? Grow up, Scott.”

“We don’t know anything about the Druids! It’s all just legends; even Deaton says so.”

“Which you only know because _I_ went and talked to him.”

“Because we were dealing with Deucalion! Who has been _impaling people we care about_ , in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Heather.”

“What?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open, hurt shining in his eyes. “ _Heather_. My friend. Who is fucking _dead_ , Scott. Your mom showed me her corpse.” He swallows convulsively, then takes a deep breath. “The Darach did that, Scott. Not your damn Alphas.”

He walks away, one hand scrubbing at his eyes. Scott sinks down against the hallway wall, head in his hands.

. . . 

. . . 

Isaac is as polite as ever at dinner, but that defiant spark is gone. Melissa studies him on her way out the door. Isaac shrinks away under her gaze. She keeps her hands in full view as she raises one to the base of his skull and the other to his forehead. “Hmm.”

“Werewolves run hot, Mom.”

She lets her hand drift down to Isaac’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, then turns to Scott for a kiss. “I should be back before you leave for school.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Is it?” She sighs heavily. Friday nights in the ER are always bad. “Alright. Be safe.”

“You too.”

. . . 

. . . 

The first night that Stiles’ dad went back to work after Mrs. Stilinski died, Stiles showed up on Scott’s doorstep, bag in hand. His eyes were flicking everywhere, but mostly to his dad. Scott found himself suddenly struck shy. His mom invited them in and gently slipped Stiles’ bag from his fingers, handing it off to Scott. “Why don’t you two go upstairs?”

Stiles looked up at dad in—fear? Scott let the straps of the bag slip through his fingers until it nearly brushed the floor, too nervous to look Stiles in the eye but unable to look away.

The Sheriff cleared his throat and tightened his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go upstairs, Stiles. I’ll see you in the morning.”

. . . 

He woke up to Stiles’ eyes, wide and wild in the darkness, the sound of strangled breaths and a grip on his arm tight enough to bruise. “Stiles! What—” Stiles was half-sobbing, his free hand grasping at his chest. “Hang on, I’ll go get my mom—”

The hand on his arm bit down in a clear _No!_ , and he backed off. Scott glanced desperately around the room. Stiles was still gasping, tears and mucous streaming down his face. “I was— I was— my mom—” he broke off with a strangled sob, fingernails digging into Scott’s wrist as he pulled in shallow, ineffective breaths. “Scott, I can’t—can’t breathe—” The grief in his eyes had been replaced by fear.

Scott forced himself to stop and think. Can’t breathe. Okay. That he could fix. He grabbed his inhaler from the nightstand and held it up. “Two puffs,” he instructed, his voice shaking. Stiles looked confused, but willing. “It’ll help, I promise.” It helped him, so it would help Stiles, right? And Stiles very clearly didn’t want any grown-ups involved, so. There. He could help. He put an arm around Stiles' shoulder and rubbed his other arm firmly, the way his mom did for him sometimes, when he came home from school saying that he was never going back: sympathetic, but with a fair amount of _you’re fine_ mixed in there as well.

Two minutes later, Stiles’ fingers were scrabbling at his chest again, his whole body writhing. _Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s—_ Scott held him, moving from _you’re fine_ to the way his mom held him after his dad left—tight hugs, no words, shared tears. He pressed a hand to Stiles' chest and felt his heart racing through his t-shirt. He looked at Stiles again, desperate, and then did the only thing left to do.

_“Mom!”_

Stiles collapsed in his arms, his whole body pulling in, then out. His body was too small, too weak, to contain or expel his grief. Scott held him tighter, his own breath starting to strain, and screamed again.

_“Mom!”_

She was already in the doorway, eyes on Scott, then Stiles, then the inhaler. “Oh my god, Scott, you can’t— Christ, never mind, just—” Her fingers were shaking slightly as she ran them through her sleep-mussed hair, then dropped onto the bed. “Okay. Okay. Stiles, sweetheart?” Scott was the one to look up at her, terrified. “Here, let me—” She tried to gently pull Stiles out of Scott’s lap and into her own, but gave up when he redoubled his grip and settled for rubbing his back. Firmly. Sympathy and _you’re fine._ “Did you have a dream?” There were tears in her eyes. Again, it was Scott who nodded, because Stiles’ forehead was pressed hard against his knee, back heaving, their fingers intertwined.

“What do we do?” Scott whispered. “What’s happening?”

His mom had managed to slip her fingers around one of Stiles’ thin wrists, the other hand still rubbing hard circles on his back. “Panic attack, I think.” Her voice was low and calm. “We’ll just stay here with him, just be here, right?” Scott realized that she was talking to Stiles, a nonsense lullaby of soothing words. “Just be here and wait it out, because it’ll be over soon, it’ll—”

Scott was so wrapped up in his mother’s words that he almost lost his balance when Stiles gripped harder on Scott’s hand, pulling hard, using his arm as leverage to try to get over the edge of the bed before he puked. He didn’t quite miss Scott’s knee.

Melissa had jumped, but was back to her stream of calm words in an instant (“It’s okay, everything will wash, just breathe, sweetheart, just breathe…”). Stiles retched once more and then collapsed against Scott, a mess of garbled apologies and tears and ragged breaths.  

Melissa pulled him to her then, and he only resisted for a moment before giving in, sobbing. She just held him. She was crying. Scott was crying. Stiles’ hands were shaking hard as he pulled them to his face. Melissa motioned to Scott and he pushed up against them, his body heavy against Stiles, ear pressed against his back. He could hear Stiles breathing, still way too fast, shivering gasps that he couldn’t control. They lay like that, together, until Stiles’ breathing started to even out. Melissa had her fingers on Stiles’ pulse again, and Scott could tell it was slowly, slowly coming down. After a few more minutes, she murmured, “Okay. I’m going to go call Stiles’ dad.” Stiles made a noise that was halfway between objection and longing. “It’s fine, sweetheart, he won’t mind. Scott, can you get Stiles a glass of water?” She glanced at the mess on the floor. “Go into my room. Take his bag; you can look for his toothbrush there.” She brushed Stiles’ hair out of his face, then leaned over him to kiss Scott on the forehead. “Hang in there.” _Hold on for dear life._ “Stiles, Scott’s with you, okay?” Scott squeezed Stiles’ hand. _Always_.

. . . 

. . . 

Scott’s lying awake, waiting for Isaac’s breathing to even out from the mattress beside his bed. It’s just a little bit ragged. There’s something rattling around in there, too low for humans to hear. Scott flips over so that he can throw an arm over the edge of the bed. Casual. If Isaac wants it, he can nuzzle into it, asking for pressure on the nape of his neck; if he doesn’t, well, it’s there.

Isaac half-heartedly pulls his pillows underneath him and whines. Scott obligingly traces his fingertips along the collar of Isaac’s soft white shirt, then onto his skin. His mom was right. Isaac’s warm. He shifts himself a little closer to the edge of the bed so that he can fit his palm around Isaac’s neck, and pulls the heat away. Isaac gasps as Scott’s veins run black, and then he’s out. Scott lets himself fall into sleep as well.

. . . 

He knows things were bad for Isaac. Doesn’t know how bad. It’s not something he’s ever asked. Stiles will start talking in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness of one of their bedrooms or in the Jeep driving back roads to nowhere. As long as there’s no eye contact, he’ll spill his secrets, voice steady, then breaking, until Scott pulls him close and muffles his words. Isaac, though— there’s just silence. Perfectly washed dishes and anxious hands waiting for Melissa’s approval (she pours it out over him like anointing oil, but it’s never enough), coy half-smiles and languid limbs, but no words. Nothing that matters. Everything they know, they found out on their own, gathering whispered secrets and blood drops and fingernail marks on that fucking deep freezer.

He’s talking now. Muttering to himself about clothes on the floor. There aren’t any, of course; Isaac doesn’t have much, but he keeps his belongings perfectly contained. Scott’s room is cleaner than it’s ever been; he’s trying to follow Isaac’s lead to keep his anxiety at bay. No clothes in sight. He’s still muddling through sleepy confusion when Isaac starts talking in a different voice, on that makes the hair on Scott’s neck stand up and his claws come out. The words are horrifying but the tone is even, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to command your teenage son to go shut himself in a freezer and wait for you to come secure the lock.

Scott’s still sitting in stunned silence when Isaac gets up and starts toward the door. He’s impossibly pale in the moonlight, hair curling with sweat, breath catching in his chest. Scott reaches him in seconds, but hesitates— Isaac’s unstable at the best of times, and aren’t you not supposed to wake a sleepwalker, and—

It’s the look of terror in Isaac’s eyes that sends him over the edge. “Isaac.” No response. _“Isaac.”_ Isaac’s fingers are twisting together so hard they might break. _“ISAAC!”_

Isaac stumbles back, stunned and submissive. His eyes dart around the room, waiting for ghosts. Scott reaches out warily, then commits, grasping Isaac’s shoulders. “Isaac. Come back to bed.”

Isaac trails behind him, eyes still hazy and lost. Scott leads him back to the bed and pulls him down to sit on the edge. Isaac curls toward him, and Scott accepts his weight for a moment before directing him down toward the pillow so that Isaac is curled around him, hands covering his eyes. Scott runs his fingers into Isaac’s hair, twisting them into the curls with his palm pressed against Isaac’s forehead. Isaac’s still breathing shallow and ragged, hands coming up to grip at Scott’s wrist. “He’s not here,” Scott tells him. “He’s—” he pulls back from the word _dead_. “He’s gone.” He slides his fingers back through Isaac’s hair and starts again, carding through the sweaty curls. He’s trying for a steady cadence, his mother’s spoken lullaby, but he keeps stumbling. Who decided that he was in charge? He’s no leader. _But you are_. He can’t fix this.

Well. He can help. He stills his hand, feeling the fever below it for a long moment before shaking himself a little more awake and concentrating on the heat, pulling it away through darkening veins. He can’t quite touch the illness underneath, the rattle that’s invaded Isaac’s lungs, but this is a start.

They fall asleep intertwined as the black lines fade from Scott’s arms.

. . . 

. . . 

When Melissa comes up to check on them at noon, Scott is sitting up in bed with his forehead on his knees, exhausted from trying to pull out Isaac’s pain. Isaac’s panting softly beside him, eyes far away, body trembling. Melissa sits down on the bed beside them, pressing one hand to Isaac’s forehead and laying the other on Scott’s hair. She sighs.

“You can say ‘I told you so,’” Scott mutters to his knees.

“Well, I did.” She smiles briefly. “I thought werewolves couldn’t get sick?”

Scott turns up a hand: _How should I know?_ “Maybe we just heal so fast we don’t notice?”

She nods. “And he’s not healing because he’s not sleeping. Or eating enough. Or letting himself relax.” She’s working her fingers through his curls now. His eyelids flutter, but stay closed. “And you.” Scott lifts his head. “You need to sleep, too.”

“No, but I can—watch.” He grips Isaac’s wrist. Isaac exhales, relaxing. Melissa watches the darkness flow between them. “Mom?”

She shakes her head. “Guess it’s not any weirder than anything else I’ve seen lately.” She looks back at him. “Does that… cure him?”

“No. But it helps.”

Melissa’s hand stops moving through Isaac’s hair. “And what does it do to you?”

“Nothing! I’m fine. It’s… it’s pretty cool, actually.” His head aches with exhaustion. His hands are starting to shake.

“Mhmm. Well, I’m officially kicking you out. Go to sleep, Scott. My room, couch, I don’t care. Isaac will be fine. Fever is not the enemy. He’s fighting off whatever this is on his own.”

He opens his mouth to object.

“Or just get out of the house. But seriously, Scott. Leave.” He scrubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. “He’s fine. We’re fine. Okay?” There are tears prickling in his eyes. She pulls him close, leaning over Isaac to get to him. “Go.”

. . . 

He ends up at Stiles’ house without trying. The Sheriff’s car is gone, but the Jeep is still in the driveway. He hesitates on the doorstep, and the door opens before he can knock. Stiles leans against the door jamb, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Scott can see the gears turning, cranking up for a biting remark, but he cuts it off. “Can we just drive?”

. . . 

“You look like hell, Scott.”

“Late night.”

“With Isaac?”

He pulls a hand down his face. “Yeah.”

The sharp exhale he gets in return is almost a laugh. “Of course it was.”

Scott turns around in his seat to stare. “No, not like that; what did you think, Stiles? That we were out partying without you?”

Stiles’ eyes are on the road. He shrugs. “How am I supposed to know? You guys are so wrapped up in all this Alpha shit that you don’t even talk to me anymore.”

“You’re figuring out the Darach! Division of labor.”

“Yeah. That’s right. Me and Lydia. And Deaton. Team Human against the powers of darkness. We could use a little help.”

“Stiles, I’m doing the best I can. Derek kicked Isaac out; he has _nobody_.” He hesitates, the plunges ahead. “He won’t talk to me. He wakes up in the middle of the night _freaking out_ every single night.”

Stiles is working his lips between his teeth. “And that’s such a fucking hardship?”

“What?”

“All those nights you were up with me, that was a fucking hardship for you?”

“Christ, no, Stiles, come on. You’re my brother. I would do anything for you.”

“And Isaac?”

“He’s my responsibility.”

“How exactly does that work, Scott?”

“I don’t know, okay? He… Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this. He acts like he’s my… beta.”

“Your— fuck. _Your_ beta, Scott?”

“I don’t know! It just seems like I’m the only one who can… bring him back, you know? He was _this close_ to attacking Allison.”

“Closer than that. Did you see her arm?”

“Exactly! So I have to keep her safe. Keep him safe. Keep everyone _alive_.”

Stiles is quiet. “It’s not all on you, man.”

“It _is!_ ” Scott’s voice is breaking now.  

Stiles looks over at him. Scott looks out the window, blinking back tears. “Okay. Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go back to my place, and eat one of those frozen pizzas my dad got. I mean, we’re gonna cook it first, or bake it, whatever. And we’re gonna crash out on the couch and watch trash tv and you’re gonna sleep.”

Scott laughs. “We need you planning our defense against the Alphas. You’ve got everything all figured out.”

“Shut up. Pizza, sleep, Real Housewives.” Scott groans. “Or some cooking show. Whatever. Just—yeah.”

“Okay.”

“We’re not done with this,” Stiles warns. “You know that long-ass bus ride we’ve got coming up for cross country? Yeah. You’re stuck with me. All Darach strategy, all the time, baby.” Scott rolls his eyes. “But for now: home.”

. . .  

Scott falls onto the Stilinskis’ couch and is out before Stiles can even get the pizza in the oven. He groans when Stiles pokes him with a foot, balancing pizza in one hand and sodas in the other, but shoves over enough to let Stiles sit down before letting his head fall back onto Stiles’ leg.

“Pizza’s gonna get cold.”

“Don’ care,” Scott slurs.

“Just don’t complain to me about it later. I texted your mom, by the way. She says to tell you that Isaac’s still out but doing better, and that you’re not allowed to come home until dinner. Or tomorrow, if I’m willing to keep you that long. Which I am, duh. What do you say?”

“Yeah, okay.”  

“Love your enthusiasm. If you’d rather go home to your new best friend, then whatever, I’ll eat your pizza, doesn’t bother me.”

Scott rolls over, very nearly rolling off the couch, so that he can look Stiles in the eyes. “Being there for Isaac doesn’t mean I’m replacing you.”

Stiles shoves him, but not hard. “God, you’re the most annoyingly earnest person I know.”

Scott rolls back over, burying his face into Stiles’ leg again. “But you love me.”

Stiles puts a hand on his head, playing with his hair. “Yeah. I do.”

Scott lets himself slide back under to the sounds of women on tv yelling at each other and Stiles burning his tongue on the pizza. There are holes in all their hearts, wounds that he can’t fix. He has power he never asked for, but it’s nothing against their pain.

Well. Not nothing. He can pull it away, just a little bit, slowing hearts and steadying breath. And, when he lets them, he has people who will do the same for him.

. . . 

. . . 

 


End file.
